It was a blacker night than usual above the Hidden Leaf, as if the heavens were dipped in ink.
Deep in the Forest of Death, darkness writhed through the underbrush—snakes, dozens of them, twisting and wrapping in the darkness.
Hiss. hiss.
They stiffened in unison, heads raised as forked red tongues darted out to sample the air.
From the trees not too far away, some masked figures emerged silently, as silent as owls. The snakes did not see.
"Here… this is the place?"
Lightly armoured on a branch near by stood the Third Hokage, Hiruzen Sarutobi. His face was somber as he looked towards a dark cave at the base of a ridge. He spoke low, heavy, and filled with unease.
"Spread out," he commanded quietly.
With a rustle, the shadows at his back disappeared into the trees, creating a black web around the whole place—quick, efficient, and lethal.
This was the ANBU Black Ops, legendary for their accuracy and cold-blooded efficiency.
Numerous ninja from the Leaf—genin, chunin, even ANBU—had disappeared recently. All ANBU were expert operatives; their disappearance couldn't be dismissed.
Even with Danzo's interference, the trail couldn't be fully erased.
Now, the issue had come to the Hokage himself, even if he had been preoccupied with border disputes. And there was only one person in his mind.
"Orochimaru…"
Following a pause that seemed an eternity, Hiruzen and the two ANBU who accompanied him disappeared into the darkness, leaving behind a mere whisper of breath—half sorrow, half regret.
Under the Forest
Dripping water reverberated along the underground tunnels—cold, wet, and interminable.
Drip. drip.
Deep beneath the earth, the tunnels gave way to a huge, dark chamber. The walls were covered with machinery. This was no underground cavern—it was a secret laboratory.
Orochimaru stood next to an operating table, his eyes shining as he looked at the corpse stretched out before him.
"Regardless of how many times I witness it," he said, "I am still awed by the perfection of this vessel."
The body was whole—pale complexion, dark locks, fine features. Not a hint of rot. It appeared asleep, not dead.
It was only the parched torso and wilted limbs that lied about the truth.
Orochimaru could sense—it was dead. But there was something about the body still present.
As if the soul had fled, leaving behind an empty vessel.
"So this is an Ōtsutsuki…" he said in a hushed tone, licking his lips.
The old Hyūga scrolls had written of them—creatures who fashioned chakra, ninjutsu itself. A people with tremendous vitality and spiritual ability.
If he could transfer this body's organs into his own, maybe he could alter his very essence—inherit their bloodline, their strength, their longevity.
Something only he could do. Not even Tsunade would dare try.
It was as if destiny had prepared this moment for him alone.
He went to the second table. A boy of around fifteen was on the floor, spilling long black hair across his shoulders. His pale face strained, and on his forehead shone the accursed seal of the caged bird.
Hyūga Nael .
The boy had brought him both the corpse of the Ōtsutsuki and the ancient Hyūga scrolls explaining their ancient heritage.
As per those books, the Hyūga clan came straight from the Ōtsutsuki. That made Nael the ideal host—no rejection, no complications.
"Nael~ ," Orochimaru murmured. "Only the heart is left. Are you prepared?"
He addressed him without honorifics. The tone wasn't affectionate—it was possessive.
After all, Nael already had his curse mark. Once the transplant was a success and Orochimaru mastered his soul-transfer method, he would claim this body as his next vessel.
"Indeed, Lord Orochimaru. Proceed."
The voice of the boy shook, but his gaze smoldered with thanks and loyalty. "You killed my parents' killer. You murdered that elder who brought ruin to my clan. This body belongs to you."
Orochimaru's lips curled into a faint smile. Executing a Hyūga elder had been painful, but worth it in order to gain the boy's submission.
He was sick of the Leaf, anyway. With the Ōtsutsuki secrets, nothing else would be important.
The Experiment
"Lord Orochimaru… what are you doing?"
The question came from an old man in a lab coat—the missing director of Konoha Hospital, once a secret recruit of Danzo's Root division. His codename was "Owl."
Orochimaru ignored him. The man would obey soon enough.
He switched on the sealing array beneath his feet. Streams of black light radiated across the floor and ascended onto Nael's body, channeling chakra through him as the blood circulation system whirred to life.
All but the heart of Nael's organs had already been transplanted.
With a precise movement, Orochimaru crafted a chakra scalpel. Steady hands opened the chest, the living heart was pulled out, and in its place, the Ōtsutsuki's was inserted.
The old man gasped. "A heart transplant? Do you think we can do that by ourselves?"
Orochimaru glared up, voice icy. "You will do it. Because if you don't, things will get… unpleasant."
The old man winced and moved to help.
Vessel by vessel, they functioned. Tension and chakra thick in the air.
Minutes ticked into hours. The boy's vitals roller-coastered wildly but never completely failed. When the last incision was closed, Orochimaru breathed softly, "Now. don't fail me."
He dropped the holding barrier.
Awakening
A heavy thud rang out in the chamber—the heartbeat of a new pulse.
Nael's veins throbbed, his body shaking wildly.
"Use your chakra!" Orochimaru snapped. "Take control of the heart—don't let it consume you!"
The boy's eyes opened, veins thudding around his temples. Chakra filled the room, raw and massive.
Then—silence. The monitors went flat.
Orochimaru's face scrunched in disgust. "Impossible. The Hyūga would've been the ideal match—"
He grasped his scalpel once more, prepared to work on saving the heart.
Thump.
He stiffened. Another heartbeat.
Thump. Thump-thump.
The noise grew louder, faster, until it filled the room like a drum of thunder.
Orochimaru's golden eyes went wide as he gazed at the instruments—the readings were off the scale, far beyond human capacities.
He approached closer, almost in reverence.
Then, a soft voice spoke.
"Yes," it said. "It worked."
Orochimaru blinked. The boy on the operating table smiled weakly as he opened his eyes.
Those once-white Hyūga eyes now glimmered with a pale iridescent sheen, a milky color between silver and ice blue. They were lovely—and vacant.
Before Orochimaru was able to move, the old doctor let out a strangled gasp—
Slice.
It was a sound barely heard. A breath of air.
A sting, a fleeting one, crossed Orochimaru's cheek.
The doctor's head hit the floor with a solid thud and rolled away, spraying blood across the floor.
The boy slowly sat up, his hand crimson-coated.
"I've waited for this night," he whispered, smiling. "A night that deserves silence."
Three years of restraint. Three years of vulnerability. Now, finally, the bloodline was sealed.
He gazed at his palm, where the blood pulsed dimly in the lights.
In Orochimaru's memory, that face had been afraid and shy.
Now, the afflicted seal disappeared from his throat, leaving a peaceful, cold smile.
Pure evil—polished and calculated.